We're Hungry - Another conversation With Ciru

Mostly, this is crossposted from sometimes - 2, but I wanted to add this little note.

I thought this post would both amuse and inform you. For example, did you know our men are scary because they look fierce? I always thought they just looked handsome and masculine! And am I really 'a little bit scary'?

Ah, well, read on!








Yesterday, great good news! Today, that is tempered with the continuing reality of survival.

Aecond conversation with Ciru. Here's the first.





Last night, we spoke to our sister, Ciru, near Nairobi.




'Oh, Mai, it is so wonderful. The killing has stopped. People don't really want to hate each other.'


She was really happy, overjoyed, but I heard something in her voice.


'What's wrong, dear? I can hear that something still is wrong with you. How is your leg?' She had had a blood clot in one leg and it had been healed, but she still had pain and weakness there.


With enthusiasm, but a little forced-sounding. 'The leg is fine. I think it's completely healed!'


A sudden brainstorm! Mai is hit with lightening! 'Ciru, do you have enough food?'


A moment of silence. Then. 'No, we don't have food. There isn't much to begin with and it's so expensive. We're hungry.'


I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. We will, of course, wire money to her, but why hasn't our son, the aeronautical engineer, seen to her needs? They have money. Surely the situation isn't so bad that he can't help his aunt. We need to call him to get her food immediately!


'Oh, Ciru, we'll get you money for food? If you have money, food is there to be bought?'


'Not very much and it's so expensive, what little there is.'


'Can your church help?'


'They're filled up with displaced people. Wives and husbands and children all separated and looking for each other. I don't know if we'll ever get it all straightened out. But at least the killing has stopped.'


'You know, the stores were burnt and the crops were stolen or even burnt and the rains haven't come. We're still waiting for the rains.'


'So drought on top of everything else?'


'Uh-huh.'


'Darling, find the nearest gurdwara (Sikh temple). We have a tradition called langar. Anyone who shows up can eat. As long as there's any food at all, you will be able to eat there.'


'I'm a Christian, not a Sikh. You know that! I don't want to change. And Sikhs are scary.'


'Doesn't matter that you're a Christian. No one will care about that. And you won't be preached to. No one will try to convert you, I promise. And I'm a Sikh. Am I scary?'


A little giggle. 'Only a little bit.' (I'm a little bit scary? I'll have to explore that sometime. But not now.) 'Are you sure they won't try to convert me?'


'Yes. One hundred percent positive sure. Just you don't try to convert anybody, OK?'


'OK. The men are scary. They're so big and hairy and fierce-looking. Are they really safe? Are you sure?'


I admit to being a bit annoyed by this. 'Of course they are. I guarantee. If not they'd have to answer to me.'


She bursts out laughing. 'I'm sure no one would want to have to answer to you! I bet even the men are scared of you.' (What is this about me being scary? Now I know we have to straighten this out!) 'OK, I know where one is. I'll go there. Oh, how do I need to dress?'


"Just dress normally, but be sure you can sit on the floor. You might put a scarf on your head.'


We continued talking for some time. It was good to hear her sounding like herself again, joking a bit about how she needs to sprout wings and fly over here to be with us. She still wants us to go there to see her beautiful country, too. We do love our homes, don't we? I know I have been feeling a strong urge to visit Punjab (O. K.) recently, but that's the subject for another post.


If you'd like to contribute to the people of Kenya, I suggest you donate to the Kenyan Red Cross. You can do it here, right on the Net, at donations to Kenya Red Cross. So many times, I have heard, 'But I'm just one person, what can I do?' Well, here's a chance. These are real people, not abstractions from a news article or clip, and they need your help.










Pictures: I have purposely left out the pictures of the starving African children. We have all seen too many of those, haven't we? After a time, we just quit looking. So I have posted pictures of a langar hall in use, a plate of food you might get at a langar (it looks so good!) , some organic producee grown in Kenya, the bust of a beautiful African woman, and a photograph of a beautiful modern Kenyan woman, Essy Wambui, a graphic artist. Follow the link to learn more about her.

I Wonder As I Wander

A couple weeks ago, when driving home from my routine blood tests, I saw a strange and troubling sight.

The drive from the clinic to our home passes through several heavily Sikh neighbourhoods. I always enjoy seeing the elderly Sikh men out on their daily constitutional walk. Of course it reminds me of my own, much adored Dad who, until a few short weeks before his death walked several kilometres a day! I love seeing these wonderful Babas walking down the street, backs straight, gait certain, turbaned heads held high, usually wearing their kurta pajama, often with gatra visible and kirpan hanging proudly by their left hand. I love the strength and dignity of these men. (I do wish I saw more elderly Sikh women walking either with the men or with each other, though. They are our lovely flowers in beautiful salwar kameez and (preferably) turbans or chunnis. This is a suggestion, ladies, if any of you read this!)

That said, the other day, I saw one such old gentleman striding down the street. But something was terribly wrong. I had never seen such a thing. He wore a gorgeous, perfectly tied, sky-blue turban, but over his dark coat, I could see his long, white hairs, not tied in his turban, hanging to his waist. Something was horribly wrong here. His beard was untrimmed and nicely groomed, his clothes were neat and clean and he was in a state in which no Sikh would ever appear in public.

I yelled at my husband, 'Stop! That man needs help!' But Simon just replied he was late and in a hurry. I fumed, but as it turned out, it worked out for the best.

I sulked all the way home and as soon as the car stopped, I leaped out and ran to our Sikh neighbour's house. She answered the door and, as soon as I explained the situation to her, she grabbed her car keys and we jumped into her car. (I suppose I should explain that I cannot drive as a result of the stroke. Eventually I hope to, but not quite yet.)

We drove to where he had been, but saw no sign of him. We kept looking and eventually found him sitting on a bus bench listening to kirtan on his iPod! He looked perfectly happy and contented, but that hair! We stopped and went to him. We both greeted him with loud Fatehs.

'Eh? Waheguru ji ka khalsa! Waheguru ji ki fateh!' removing the earbuds and looking at us quizzically.

'Are you OK?' I asked.

He looked at me without comprehension. I realised he didn't speak English. Good thing my companion was there, as my Punjabi was lost in the stroke.)

She spoke to him for a few minutes, then he raised his hand and felt the back of his neck, pulling at the exposed hairs. A look of horror came over his face; I thought he was going to cry. Shaking, he reached in a pocket and handed her his wallet. She started to take out her cell phone, when we heard a kirtan ringtone and she reached in his pocket and pulled out HIS cellphone and answered it. It was, of course, his frantic family trying to locate him. After a brief conversation, they disconnected, we gathered the gallant old Singh into her car and drove him home. It was some distance. He had walked over 10 kilometres (6 miles) from his home! He might be old and perhaps a sufferer of Alzheimer's Disease or some such affliction, but he was still strong. In the car, he replaced the earbuds and happily listened to his iPod all the way home.

When we arrived, the whole family came running out, overjoyed to have him returned safely. His wife was crying and tsk-tsking over his hair, while he continued listening to that iPod. We were invited in and treated to some of the best food I've had in a long time.

And, yes, my companion was the lady I had written about in an earlier post.

AFTERWARD: When I got home, my husband was truly annoyed at my refusal to mind my own business and pouted for several days. Suggestion: Marry a Sikh.

Burning Punjab

This proKhalistan website has been brought to my attention and I would like to share it with my readers. It is called Burning Punjab and is available both in English and Punjabi. Check it out!

http://www.burningpanjab.com/

Teach Your Children Well..

Teach your children well,
Their parents' hell did slowly go by,
And feed them on your dreams
The one they picked, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry,
So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.


Last Wednesday, as I do every day, I walked out to the mailbox to pick up our snail mail. As is often the case, some young teenagers across the street started making fun of me. I do look a little strange, walking slightly off balance and my semi-paralysed left hand has a tendency to ball up into a fist and that arm hangs a bit funny, not quite natural looking, I suppose. I ignore these rude kids, as usual, but I'm very much aware of them.

That day, though, there were a couple I hadn't seen before, a girl with very long, black hair and a boy with a patka. As I turned from the mailbox to walk back into the house, the girl loudly slapped the patkaed boy and ran across the street to me.

'Ma'am, I'm sorry. They shouldn't be rude like that. It's mean.' Then she very bravely gently took my left hand and held it. Cooties, you know.

'Thank you,' I said, 'That's very nice of you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But you know, Guru Ji says we should use physical force, only when there's no alternative. You really shouldn't have hit your...brother?'

'Yeah, he's my brother, Steve [Steve? I thought.] Guru Ji?' She gave me that very curious look, grabbed my right hand and my kara fell out of my long sleeve to my wrist. She gasped and then broke out in a huge smile.

'She's one of us!' she shouted across the street and ran back to her brother. 'Sorry I hit you, but you shouldn't be so mean.'

All three came across the street, obviously curious about me. They were full of questions.

'Are you a goreh Sikh? What happened to you, your hand doesn't work too good. Do you hate us for being mean?'

'Not exactly. I had a stroke. No, but you should stop the rudeness.'

I invited them in and offered them some hot spiced milk and cookies (biscuits to you Commonwealth types). How cliche. I told them about my family with the Punjabi Sikh father and the French Canadian mother.

They were fascinated by my eccentric family and they wondered if I had any kids. Without really thinking about the situation, I answered, 'Yes, a son and two daughters, but they're dead. They got killed.'

Instant sympathy as only the very young are capable of followed immediately by curiosity. 'How did they die. Can we ask? Was it a car wreck or something?'

'Or something, I guess. We were visiting in Delhi during the anti-Sikh violence in 1984 and they got killed.'

'I heard something about that, but I don't really know what happened. About a thousand Sikhs were murdered, right? We know it happened, but no one who was there will talk about it. Tell us.'

Suddenly we were in much too deep. I really didn't want to give these innocent - if rude - young kids their first first-person account of this ugliness. There was a naive sweetness to them that I knew my story would destroy. Usually, I feel the need to tell our story, but this time, I was very reluctant.

'How devout are your parents? How much does being Sikh mean to them?'

The boy answered. 'They're both amritdhari. See they don't let me cut my hair.'

'Would you, if they let you?'

'Oh, yeah, all this hair is so dumb. And they're always laughing at me at school.'

That decided me. 'My son, Sandeep, was about your age - you're around 13? - when all this happened. '

The boy coughed. 'I like to be called Steve, but my name's really Sandeep. Like your son.'

'Well, he'd probably still be alive today if he'd cut his hair.' So I told them the whole story. And I showed them what I will not show you, my readers, our pictures. I showed them the formal family portrait we had done before we left for India in April, 1984. They did the obligatory oohs and aahs over how beautiful I was and how handsome Mani and Sandeep were. We really were a good-looking family, if I may say so. Then I showed them the pictures we had taken with our hairs down and open - proof it was unshorn - before we were attacked in Delhi and then the pictures of us in full bana, all of us, even me, with turbans, ready for whatever would happen. They giggled uneasily over that picture.

'You look like people out of an old Sikh history book, like shaheeds fighting Mughuls or something.' Then, very softly from one of the boys, 'I guess you were kind of like them.' Then, 'We need to see the other pictures, too.'

I pretended not to understand, but they persisted. 'The ones your rescuers took. You said you have them.'

Those pictures are graphic and bloody, not things to show these young people. On the other hand, scenes as graphic and bloody are shown daily on CNN and even network news. 'Are you sure you want to see them? They're pretty terrible.' That, of course, although unintended by me,. goaded them on and they insisted they simply had to see them. I have both printed copies and a CD, but I didn't feel like looking at the large pictures on the TV, so I got the prints. I myself rarely look at them; they really are that bad.

It so happened that the top picture was of Sandeep lying on his back, his head at that askew angle. I had, of course, washed all the faces, so at least there wasn't a lot of blood there, although, some had seeped out of his nose after I had washed him. All of them looked at the photo, then at the portrait still on the TV screen, back and forth. None of them had dry eyes. 'Shaheed,' whispered Steve/Sandeep boy. However proud we are of them, I doubt any mother wants that particular word to apply to her child. We give them willingly, when necessary, of course, but...

'I'll never, never cut my hair,' from Sandeep/Steve , loudly. 'Never!' He may change his mind later, but for a moment, at least, he experienced the pride and determination of a Sikh.

We went through the rest; the pictures of me lying across Mani's body clearly upset them. They did comment on how peaceful they all looked. I always have that reaction to these pictures, as well.

Their reaction to the picture of the [person] I had killed surprised me, although I guess it shouldn't have. His face had not been washed; it was covered with blood. His eyes and mouth were open and his throat a gaping mass of dried blood. In contrast to our shaheeds, there was nothing peaceful looking about him. Those unseeing eyes and silent mouth still clearly showed the terror he had experienced at the moment of death. And my new, young friends? They cheered. And laughed. And I didn't stop them. I suppose I should have given them a lecture about how it is a painful thing to kill, even when it's necessary and how death is a tragedy and, you know, all that. But I didn't. I always feel a particular sense of satisfaction when looking at [him] lying there, terrified, helpless, dead.

When they left, I told them I'd really like to meet their parents.

Two days later, I did. A knock on the door and there stood a medium height, rather weathered-looking turbaned gentleman and a diminutive lady in an orange salwar kameez suit, along with the two young teenagers. We fatehed each other quite formally and I invited them in, the woman trying hard not to giggle. I wondered why.

The man was very serious, however, and when we started talking, I discovered that his brother had been killed in Delhi. They had never told their kids about him or what had happened there. I got in the impression that he was glad that had gotten the story from someone else.

Nervously, 'My two reluctantly Sikh children are suddenly talking about taking Amrit. My son, Steve, has become Sandeep and instead of lobbying to hack off his kesh, he wants to tie a turban.. We would like to see these extraordinary pictures if we could, please.'

The wife, able to contain herself no longer, burst out laughing. I had wondered if perhaps she couldn't speak English, but she spoke up, with a perfect Toronto accent, 'I'm sorry, but I thought with the way the kids talked that you'd be at least two metres tall and breathe fire. You look more like one of the gurdwara aunties than like a mighty warrior.'

I laughed. 'You might be surprised at some of your gurdwara aunties.' And she probably would, at that.

I showed them the pictures, first the 'nice' ones, then the gruesome ones. They had the same reaction as their children. 'So sad, but they look so peaceful.'

As they left, they were a little apologetic. 'We should have talked to our children about these things, ourselves.' I could not disagree. Unfortunately, they are just here for a week visiting family and will soon return to Toronto.

'...And know they love you.





Teach Your Children -Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, 1970 is a great song and it deserves to be read by all of you, so here are the lyrics:

You who are on the road
Must have a code that you can live by
And so become yourself
Because the past is just a good bye.

Teach your children well,
Their parents' hell did slowly go by,
And feed them on your dreams
The one they picked, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry,
So just look at them and sigh

and know they love you.

And you, of tender years,
Can't know the fears that your elders grew by,
And so please help them with your youth,
They seek the truth before they can die.

Teach your parents well,
Their children's hell will slowly go by,
And feed them on your dreams
The one they picked, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry,
So just look at them and sigh

and know they love you.

The picture of the young man is from a SALDEF mailing. I chose it because the young man's new mustache reminds me so much of Sandeep. He was so proud of his - as well he might be. Few young men of 13 have such a nice one.

The bird watching picture is for my readers who love birds. And children. And courage?

WHY TRY TO FIT IN?
YOU WERE BORN TO STAND OUT!

More Laibar and Surinder - The Singhs Move Forward

So much going on right now. I have read in Sify News that Laibar Singh wants to go back to India if he can be guaranteed good medical care there.

Harpal Singh Nagra, President of the South Asian Human Rights group that was at the forefront of the fight for blocking Singh's deportation, said: “Though the CBSA told us last week that they will not enter the Sikh temple, I would now prefer that Singh should go back to India.”

He said: “Singh himself wants to go back if he is guaranteed that he will get the money for his medical treatment in India. We will raise money for him. I think he can get good treatment in India.”

We'll see if and how that plays out.

I read today in the Times of India that they are actually ready to depose Surinder Singh about Mr. Tytler's role in the murders in Delhi in 1984:


Printed from
The Times of India -Breaking news, views. reviews, cricket from across India


1984 anti-Sikh riots: CBI to record Surinder's statement today
21 Feb 2008, 0322 hrs IST,TNN

SMS NEWS to 58888 for latest updates

CHANDIGARH:

For Bhai Surinder Singh, a key witness in the 1984 anti-Sikh riots case being investigated by the CBI, it's one battle won. The investigating agency contacted Singh's lawyer Navkiran Singh on Wednesday, informing him that his client should present himself in the local CBI office in Sector 30 at 11 am on Thursday to record his statement before DSP SS Kishore from Delhi.

However, there has been no word on Navkiran's other client, US-based Jasbir Singh, who apprehends threat to his life and has refused to come to India.

Both Jasbir and Surinder are witnesses against Congress leader Jagdish Tytler, who has been accused of leading a mob against Sikhs during 1984 riots. Post the summons, Surinder sounded upbeat but claimed that the pressure was still there on his family in Delhi. "My daughter-in-law is being pressurized to lodge a false case of dowry harassment against me. In return, she is being assured a passage to Canada, where my son and her husband, now lives. We have been trying to send her to Canada for the past several years, but Tytler seems to have had an upper hand." Regarding his plea to the Punjab government to provide him security and means of livelihood since he cannot return to Delhi, adviser to the chief minister, Daljit Singh Cheema said the government "is doing the needful".

On Tuesday, he had told TOI that there had been no positive response from the CBI despite his attempts to contact it in the past one week. Earlier, on February 13, Surinder had reiterated his resolve to give his side of the story after years of "living under pressure and facing threat to life".

So much trouble in the world.

Nothing, of course, will ever make up for what happened in 1984. Justice against Mr. Tytler would be at least some justice. So will we finally get some justice for 1984?

We're waiting.

Thoughts On Our Kara

Every person I know who calls her/himself a Sikh wears a kara. I know I wore mine through the long years of my exile from the Sangat, even when they tried to forcefully remove at the mental hospital. They could have taken my wedding band if they had wanted that, but not my kara.

When Maman (Vini) visited with me after my twenty years' absence, she brought me a kara from her home in Amritsar. Knowing my taste, she brought a very simple, flat one. No lines, no engaving. Like this one. I exchanged it with the one I had been wearing since 1984 during our battle.

The kara is most decidedly not a magic talisman. It does, however, have power. I cannot tell how many times seeing or feeling my kara, or just knowing it's there, has given me strength and courage to do what I know is right.

In fact, since babyhood, the only time it has been off my body was when I got an MRI - any magnetic metal in the room could screw up the very expensive piece of equipment - and anyway, I was comatose. But I wonder how often we really consider what it means to us. This article appeared in the Gurmat Learning Zone, and since I have permission to republish their articles, here I share it with you

Maybe after reading it, you'll be even more appreciative of the kara on your wrist or arm.

Kara– SYMBOL OF FREEDOM AND EQUALITY

Kara, one of the five kakars of the Sikhs, is neither an ornament nor a tool, but is a blessed gift from Lord, the Tenth Master Guru Gobind Singh ji.

Alas, this great gift to the humanity has been ignored or has not been appreciated in its true spirit.

Kara symoblises dignity, equality, independence and emancipation from slavery. It can be termed with certainity, whether it is known to the world or not that it is the prelude to the Charter of the UNO or foundation stone of the human rights' movements in the world.

Guru Nanak Dev ji, founder of the Khalsa Panth was born in year 1469 in Punjab, the land of five rivers. Coincidentally this was the year when in the west Machevally was also born.

This was the time when the Indian society was cursed with four divisions on the basis of birth in a particular clan. Vast majority was termed as shudras, or so-called lower castes. The biggest challege of that time with the Gurus was the blood-stained subjugation, torture, humiliation, deprivation of vast majority of the people not on the basis of their ethicity, colour, gender, knowledge, race or region but the birth in the house of a shudra.

         That was the time when the alleged low castes, shudras were deprived from entry or participation the temples of learning, and temples of religious prayers. A human being deprived of these two gifts will become and behave in a manner less than human beings. In olden times the cursed were branded or forced to live in ghettos. Perpetuating and implementing his thoughts, founding father of the socio-religious laws of Hindus, Manu pronounced about the low caste shudras should wear the black-iron ornaments.

 

Their dress (shall be) the garments of the dead, (they shall eat) their food from broken dishes, black iron (shall be) their ornaments, and they must always wander from place to place. [Manu Smriti - Chapter X, canto 52.]

This was not acceptable and detested to by the founder of Sikhism, Guru Nanak Dev ji. In absolute humility and humbleness, he categorically declared and identified himself with the lowest of the low saying,

                     ਨੀਚਾ ਅੰਦਰਿ ਨੀਚ ਜਾਤਿ ਨੀਚੀ ਹੂ ਅਤਿ ਨੀਚੁ ॥  

ਨਾਨਕੁ ਤਿਨ ਕੈ ਸੰਗਿ ਸਾਥਿ ਵਡਿਆ ਸਿਉ ਕਿਆ ਰੀਸ ॥   

ਜਿਥੈ ਨੀਚ ਸਮਾਲੀਅਨਿ ਤਿਥੈ ਨਦਰਿ ਤੇਰੀ ਬਖਸੀਸ ॥4॥3॥
(ਗੁ.ਗ੍ਰੰ.ਸਾ. ਸਿਰੀਰਾਗੁ, ਮ:1)

Nanak seeks the company of the lowest of the low class, the very lowest of the low. Why should he try to compete with the great? In that place where the lowly are cared for-there, the Blessings of Your Glance of Grace rain down. 43

(Guru Granth Sahib, Siri Rag, M:1)

This message was carried to its logical ends by the Tenth Master Guru Gobind Singh when he initiated the Khalsa Panth by bestowing Amrit (nectar). The de-branding the so-called shudras and to bestow divine acceptance to all He directed every Sikh to always wear kara (black iron) bangle like ornament on the wrist.

              Kara thus became a divine hand-cuff reminding the adherant of his obligation to follow the diktats and desist from prohibted commands.

To look for material benefits or comfirts from kara is belittling its true message. Once a student of Khalsa College, Amritsar asked Master Tara Singh, veteran gursikh leader that what is the advantage of wearing a kara. Master Tara Singh replied there is no benefit for you. Shocked student asked, 'and it is beneficial to you?'. Masterji replied in the affirmative.

When asked further Master Tara Singh's reply was terse and pointed. He explained that you are trying to look into the kara that if you wear it you will get some benefits or may get more marks in exams. Nothing of the sort is going to happen. But to me it is a constant and inspirational reminder that those who had this kara on their wrists had their skull ripped off with a chisel, were cut bit by bit, were boiled alive and baked on hot plates. To me this is a reminder that if I wear it I may be blessed this way for my commitment to my Guru. The importance of a Kara on the wrist of a Sikh can be visualised from the following words of a spiritiual philosopher and scientist Prof. Puran Singh.:

"I heard a stupid Sikh preacher the other day, trying to convince a mass gathering of the Sikhs that the iron ring of the Guru worn on the wrist is a protection against lightning. He said, as large buildings are made safe against lightning by a rod of iron, so the Guru has saved man from the stroke of lightning. He was hopelessly flinging his arms up and down to gather some straw of a reason to prove the rationale of the iron ring the Guru gave us as a gift. Coming to us from our personal God, dearer to us than our mother, father, sister or sweetheart, it comes to us as His Gift, as His Blessing, Fie on our manners that we argue over and over about it. He touched my hair and I keep it; when I toss my arm up in the air and the iron ring shines, I am reminded of His wrist that wore it – One exactly like this. Is this arm, by some stray gleam of the iron ring on my wrist, His? Other religions live in an elaborated symbolism; I the Sikh have no religion. He loved me, he made me His own. The sword is the mind where the Guru lives. The iron ring is the sign of His remembrance. The tresses of hair are as clouds round a snow peak – they always gather, gather—they always rain, rain. In my sacred tresses flow Ganga, Jamna and Godavari. Have I got the comb, the Guru gave me? have I got His other gifts? I may have lost them. But I cannot lose my tresses, I cannot lose my iron ring. Because, you remember how He called His disciple Bhai Gurdas from Benaras. The disciples went as bidden and brought him with his hands bound with a string from Benares to Amritsar. Once the call of the Master was answered thus. Each one of us is called. We are of His spiritual militia. We have to wear the ring which is His gift, and we are the prisoners of infinite love. These are the fetters of love, the price of our freedom. Each Sikh wears hair and the beard of Guru gobind Singh. We are moulded in His image."  (Ji, please forgive me for mentioning this, but most women, even Sikh women, don't have beards.)

So kara in the hands of a Sikh is an article of faith and commitment to the society and should be honoured and appreciated like that. It is neither an ornament nor a superstitious symbol. It is certainly a vocal and potent sign of commitment to the human rights of the entire humanity.

-Compiled by Gurcharanjit Singh Lamba

Coordinator, IHRO Sikh Affairs

All pictures except the header are from the Sikh Kara Store on eBay.
--
WHY TRY TO FIT IN?
YOU WERE BORN TO STAND OUT!